Turning the Tables
by Wyntir Rose
Summary: Smokescreen sits down with Prime for some much needed therapy.


**Title:** Turning the Tables

**Rating:** T

**Series:** G1

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Prime, Smokescreen, mentioned Prime/Elita

**Summary**: Smokescreen sits down with Prime for some much needed therapy.

**Warnings: **

_**Disclaimer:**__ Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara, and are licensed to IDW and Dreamworks. My original characters are my own and any similarity between them and any existing characters from canon or fandom is purely coincidental. I claim no ownership by writing this work._

**Author's Note**: Very special thanks to eloquencelost for help with this fic.

Smokescreen sat back in the guest chair in Prime's office and crossed his legs casually. Officially this was just an informal get together; just two mechs talking over a friendly cube. Unofficially, however, it was their semi-monthly discussion of crew morale. Ever since Smokescreen had been reawakened on Earth, he had secretly been Prime's spy among the ranks, informing Optimus of the day to day workings of the crew and keeping him appraised on anything he needed to know.

"There's not a lot more to report on the state of the crew," Smokescreen said as he continued his report to the Autobot commander. "Huffer is irritated as usual; Ratchet is worried that Wheeljack is going to blow himself up, and neither of them have taken any steps to move their relationship beyond friendship - between you and me, I think they need a forcible nudge to get on with it; and the Twins are up to something."

"Oh?" Optimus asked. Had he been human, Smokecreen was sure that Prime's eyebrows would have been raised in concern.

"I'm not positive what's going on, save that they're ignoring each other like a pair of fighting alley cats. Whatever the cause, I'll put good money down that they'll get into a brawl before the end of the week and take out the rec room while they're at it. After that, it'll be as if nothing happened. Either way, we should order more furniture and probably a new TV set."

Optimus nodded and steepled his fingers. "I'll make a note of your suggestions. Is there anything else I should know? Any other potentially explosive problems?"

Smokescreen shook his head and motioned to the data pad on Prime's desk. "No, everything else is in the report. I had sessions and quiet conversations with the entire crew save one member." He looked pointedly at Prime.

Optimus picked up the data pad and skimmed through it, ignoring Smokescreen's silent prompt. "I see you haven't said anything about your own mental health in here."

Smokescreen chuckled, allowing his doors to bob in amusement. "Nice dodge, there, Prime. I'm not in there because there's nothing particularly interesting going on at the moment. As soon as I have something non-incriminating to report, you'll be the first to know about it. Promise." The crooked grin pulling at his lips said otherwise. "Besides, Ratchet and Hoist are my sounding boards. They'll let you know if I've done or said anything that needs to be brought to your attention."

Prime chuckled softly, obviously not in any way buying Smokescreen's story. "Well that being the case, I'll expect to hear from one – or both – of them shortly."

"Quite likely." Smokescreen took another drink before folding his hands in his lap, looking at Prime expectantly. "So, are you done dodging the obvious like I was a Seeker on your aft?"

"Smokescreen, if I find myself in need of assistance I promise I'll let you know," Prime replied, his tone making it clear that the conversation was over.

"Bullshit," came the quite response. "I can see that something's bugging you and has been for weeks now. You _can_ talk to me, you know. Unlike the others, I have no delusions that you're the Messiah."

"I doubt that anyone-"

Smokescreen cut Prime off with an irreverent bark of laughter. "Yeah, right you doubt it."

He paused at Prime's dark look. "Okay, fine, maybe you honestly don't see it. Maybe you genuinely think that they look on you like any other commander. … Of course, you're not any other commander, you're the Prime. You're the sole caretaker of the last piece of Primus's spark, or the bearer of the wisdom of the ancients, or the keeper of the last creation force of Cybertron. Regardless of what the Matrix actually is, the troops worship you. They would follow you into the inferno if you asked, and on some level I think you know that and that's why you don't deal with them. Outside of professionally, I mean."

Prime actually looked indignant at the observation. "I resent the implications, Smokescreen. I am-"

Again, Smokescreen cut off his commander. "Resent them and me all you like, Optimus. The facts are what they are. There are a total of three mechs in this army who don't think you walk on water; me, Ironhide, and Elita … Well, four. But I don't see anyone using Prowl as a personal confidant. The point is, Prime, you separate yourself from the rest of the crew. I understand why you do it. After all we need a symbol. We need to have faith in something, and if the others were to realize just how fallible you actually are ..." The Datsun broke off with a shrug.

"And what do you suggest?" Prime asked tightly.

"You find a confidant." Smokescreen shrugged, those eloquent doors bobbing as if in agreement. "You need to let loose, Prime. You need to talk to someone and you need to unburden yourself otherwise you won't like the consequences."

Optimus's optics flashed angrily, but his tone remained steady and his hands remained folded on the desk; although Smokescreen did notice the tightening of the cables in his fingers. "You are overstepping your bounds, Smokescreen. I have your report. We're done here."

The Datsun made no move to leave his chair. "Prime, I'm not overstepping anything. I'm doing precisely what you hired me to do; reporting to you on the mental health of this crew. And last time I checked, you've got the swell tattoo just like the rest of us," he said as he tapped the Autobot sigil on his chest.

"And I suppose you think you're the one I should speak with? That I should schedule hour long sessions to discuss my various issues?"

"Oh pit no!' Smokescreen replied with an irreverent snort. "You can talk to me about the little things, but the big ones? You need someone you trust implicitly, and we both know that isn't me.

The Datsun became serious again. "Prime, there are other mechs in this army who won't fall to pieces when they learn that you aren't Primus incarnate. You need to surround yourself with those mechs so that they can remind you that you are fallible and mortal every once in a while. Otherwise you run the serious risk of turning into Megatron."

Prime's jaw visibly bunched under his battlemask. When he finally spoke his voice was tight and clipped, nothing like his normal laid back, slightly sad tone.

"Smokescreen, I am handling everything quite well, thank you. I have the personal diaries that you advised I keep - diaries that I still think are a potential security issue, by the way. And I speak with Elita every chance I get. _She_ is my personal confidant, sounding board, and advisor. I do not need you implying that I am or will be anything like Megatron simply because I chose not to confide in you."

The psychologist never moved, never flinched in the face of Prime's cold anger. Instead, he chose to take a different tack.

"When was the last time you got laid, Optimus?"

Prime visibly rocked back in his chair, optics wide. Even with the battle mask Smokescreen saw a myriad of emotions pass over that normally implacable face. Shock, surprise, embarrassment.

"Excuse me?" Prime's question was quiet, a barely audible whisper.

"When was the last time you got laid? Two years ago when you were on Cybertron and saw Elita? I assume that was the last time you talked to her too. I mean, really talked since I'm sure that neither of you is going to divulge personal or secure information over an open comm line."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Smokescreen smiled and flicked his doors back slightly. "It has to do with the fact that no mech is an island, Optimus. It has to do with the fact that we all need time to decompress. A diary and a date with Rosy Palms isn't going to cut it when you're carrying as heavy a burden as you are. You _need_ to destress, and you need to allow yourself to time to stop being The Prime for a while. As far as I can tell, there are two people you can comfortably do that with, and seeing as neither you nor Ironhide would ever consider cheating on your respective mates, I advise, in my full professional capacity, that you take a leave of absence and go back to Cybertron. Either that or talk Elita into coming here."

"Your full 'professional' capacity?" Prime asked, optics still dark with irritation. "You do realize that you aren't actually a psychologist, right?"

"True. But I'm the only one who read the manual," Smokescreen replied with a negligent shrug. "Besides, I may not be a proper psychologist with all the required degrees, but I am a con artist, and that makes me more than qualified when it comes to understanding the way people work."

Optimus remained silent in the face of the twisted logic.

"Now, Prime, are you going to take my advice or are am I going to have to talk Ratchet into putting you medical leave?"

"You wouldn't dare," Prime growled, glaring at Smokescreen.

"We both know that I would and I will. And while you're at it, take Ironhide with you. He needs to see Chromia as much as you need to see Elita. I've mentioned it in my report." Smokescreen nodded toward the data pad on Prime's desk.

There was a long, drawn out silence between the mechs as Optimus glared at Smokescreen. To anyone else, Prime would have looked irritated and nothing more, but the Datsun made his career and livelihood on reading other mechs, and he saw a million different thoughts pass through the optics of the Autobot commander. Finally the standoff ended, and Prime looked down at the data pad.

"Smokescreen, you need to learn to word your suggestions more politickly."

The Datsun's doors seemed to shrug nonchalantly. "Yeah, I've been told that. But it doesn't change the fact that everything I say is true. ... Well, everything I said here."

Prime sighed and examined the contents of the data pad. After a long moment he put it down and met Smokescreen's optics.

"Fine. I acknowledge and accept your full report, both what's here and what you said. I'll take it all under advisement."

Smokescreen nodded and stood. "You do that, Boss. I'll expect to see you heading off for Cybertron in the next couple of days. If not, I'll get Ratchet involved." He raised his hand as Prime started to object. "Not a threat, Optimus. Just a statement."

With that, the Datsun turned and left the office, not waiting to be dismissed. After all, he had never been one to stand on formalities such as rank.

Silence descended over the office, leaving Prime to glare at the report and mull over what he had been told. Finally after almost an hour of internal debate, Prime opened an ultra secure personal comm. to Cybertron.

"Elita? Would you and Chromia be able to meet Ironhide and me at the Space Bridge?"


End file.
